


Starry Night

by mag_and_mac



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Abuse, Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Character Death, Child Abuse, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-06-01 09:57:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15140624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mag_and_mac/pseuds/mag_and_mac
Summary: “Mycroft,” He stood still, not moving his eyes from the cloudy night sky. He watched the matte, midnight blue with careful eyes as he continued, “The stars are gone.”Mycroft was silent for half a minute as he took in the scene before him.“Don’t be silly.” He breathed. If anyone were to ask him if his voice cracked, he would wholeheartedly deny it. “They’re just hidden behind the clouds.”





	Starry Night

“Mycroft,” A seven year old Sherlock called. He was seated in the bench beneath the large window that adorned his father’s study. It was as tall as the boy himself and framed with a dark, aged oak that matched the floors of the room. He had forgone flipping the light switch, so his piercing grey eyes were brighter than ever in the dark of the room. 

He heard the distinct _clack_ of his brother’s heeled oxfords coming nearer, but did not turn to face him.

“You know you’re not supposed to be in father’s study.” Came Mycroft’s fourteen year old voice from the doorway.

“The stars are gone.” Said they younger boy.

As Mycroft briefly cast his eyes towards the glass of the window, he replied, “Don’t be silly. They’re just hidden behind the clouds.”

At the lack of a response he continued, “Come on, now. We’ll get you fixed up for bed.”

“I don’t want to go to sleep.”

“You have to.”

“It’s boring.”

“Most things are.”

Sherlock huffed and crossed his arms, a rare display of childish anger threatening to take over.

“Sherlock...”

“What?”

“You know what happens when you get like this.”

“That doesn’t happen to the other kids at school.”

“Maybe they go to bed quietly.” Mycroft replied.

“You know they don’t.”

“I do.” Mycroft whispered.

As he said it, another silhouette formed in the entry to the room.

“Is there a problem here, Mycroft?” Siger asked.

“Of course not, father.”

Without sparing but a glance into the room, he called out, “You know you’re not supposed to be in my study, William.”

There was a shuffle as his small feet crossed the floor.  
“Don’t drag your feet, William.”

As he neared his father, he stared at him right in the eyes, and as grey met grey, he retorted, “That’s not my name.”

He was answered with a sharp slap across his cheek, and instinctual tears formed in his eyes.

“Don’t talk back to me.”

Sherlock moved his gaze to meet his father’s once again, and removed his hand from where it sat on his reddening face.

“I wasn’t. I was simply correcting you.”

He watched his father’s knuckled turn white, and ignored his brother’s cautionary plea to just go to bed.

“You don’t get to correct me, Sherlock. You’re an idiot. You’re a stupid git, and you’ll never become anything.”

The child bristled. “As you’ve told me before.”

He could barely finish before he received a sharp punch across the same cheek that had been struck not moments before. He stumbled into his back into his brother’s warm chest, and he turned to embrace it. His hand flew up to where Siger’s wedding ring had cut a gash along his cheekbone as he heard his brother say he had seen quite enough, and he was quickly led upstairs to the bathroom.

Sherlock felt himself get lifted up to sit before the sink, and he finally met his brother’s eyes. 

As Mycroft wet a small cloth in the sink behind his younger sibling, he chastised him, “I told you not to provoke him.” 

They both ignored the yelling downstairs. It was a common enough occurance these days.

He started cleaning Sherlock’s cut as he got a response. “I know.”

“But you still did it.”

“I know.”

Mycroft sighed, and moved both of his hands down to rest on the worktop’s edge as he ceased tending to the product of his sibling’s stubbornness. 

“You have to learn to control yourself. You know I’ll be gone come July.” He referenced his upcoming move to a boarding school.

Sherlock looked away to the shiny porcelain of the toilet. _”I know.”_ He mustered.

The eldest was about to reply as they heard the crash of a vase from below.

-

Violet Holmes unlocked the door, tired from another day of work, to find her husband sitting stoic on his favourite aged armchair. She quietly kicked of her shoes, hung her jacket, and put her handbag to rest on the brown, carved table that sat just behind the door.

She rounded the back of the chair, her bare feet not making a sound against the dark hardwood, to face him, and as she looked at the hand nestled beneath his chin, she flinched. The blood marked ring glistened in the warm artificial lighting of the room as she spoke, “Siger, please tell me you didn’t do that. Not again.”

Siger remained silent.

“I can’t let you keep doing this.”

Silence.

She replied with the same thing, as she reached for her mobile. He finally found his voice.

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing.” She bit over her shoulder, as she padded out of the room, phone flush to her ear.

Her back slid down the thick wood of the bedroom door, and she began to cry, but did not move the phone from where it was. Not even after she heard a soft sound from the other side indicating that someone had put the side of their face against it to listen.

“Hello?” She asked as the line crackled with life. “I-I’d like to report ch-child abuse.”

There was a thud against the door as her name was shouted. The brass door handle jostled and shook, but did not give way.

She, however, made the mistake of getting up to pace, forgetting that the room she had picked did not have a lock. The phone clattered to the floor as her husband swung the wood away to reveal her inside of the modest guest bedroom.

“Siger...” She breathed, backing up.

He stared at her, veins popping in his head. “What were you thinking!?”

“I c-can’t keep letting you do th-this,” She replied, still moving away from him. He had yet to move an inch from the doorway.

“I do not abuse my children!” He shouted.

She took a shaky breath. “Y-yes, you do.”

His face morphed into disgust. “Why are you crying?”

He received no answer, so he repeated himself louder, stepping into the room. The old wood creaked under his heavy foot. “I asked you why you're crying! Did I hit you!? Did I!?” He screamed.

Violet could do no more than shake her head violently, as tears blinded her, and her back pressed against the wall.

“Then why are you crying!?” He spat, as he whirled around to grab his mother’s prized vase from her travels to China. It was white and blue with floral designs, worth more than many things he had seen in his days. It would have been gorgeous had it not lay shattered on the ground. He picked up the neck of the vase, a jagged edge on one side, and the other smooth as ever.

He approached his wife like a madman, waving the tool in the air as a threat. Her life was not her own. He could end it any time.

“Stop crying!” He yelled.

She only shook her head more.

“Stop that! Stop it! Stop crying!” 

He killed her.

It took less than a minute, and Sherlock would soon deduce he had pierced her aorta, as he stood in the doorway, his brother at his side standing as wide-eyed as he.

Siger didn’t know they had seen, too focused on his bloodied wife, until the police showed up at the manor. He later found out that it was, in fact, his own flesh and blood thaf had dared betray him.

-

A fortnight had passed since the event. Everything in the house had been whisked away as evidence, and the manor itself was permanently closed. Sherlock, however, found it much too easy to sneak inside.

He heard the telltale click of his brother’s oxfords coming down the hall.

“Shelock,” A voice rang, “You know you’re not supposed to be in father’s study.”

This time the room was dark again, but not because Sherlock wanted it that way. Flicking the switch was a fruitless endeavor, as it seemed there was no longer electricity crackling in the house. His brother’s eyes, so much like his own, shone bright across the room, as did the floors. The oak wood was glowing with light that streamed in from the window, and it contrasted greatly from the beige walls. Now there was not a single book or knick-knack that deigned decorate the area, and Sherlock had no bench to sit upon.

“Mycroft,” He stood still, not moving his eyes from the cloudy night sky. He watched the matte, midnight blue with careful eyes as he continued, “The stars are gone.”

Mycroft was silent for half a minute as he took in the scene before him.

“Don’t be silly.” He breathed. If anyone were to ask him if his voice cracked, he would wholeheartedly deny it. “They’re just hidden behind the clouds.”


End file.
